


An (Un)fortunate Wager

by justacookieofacumberbatch (buffyholic)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 10:23:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11484399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buffyholic/pseuds/justacookieofacumberbatch
Summary: John makes an ill-informed bet, and it just might be the best thing that's ever happened to Sherlock.





	An (Un)fortunate Wager

John’s gait was heavy on the stairs. Trudging. Lumbering. “There’s no way.”

“There is a way. I’m correct.” Sherlock whipped his coat off his shoulders, took a moment to determine which way he was facing, and hung up his coat by the door. Or rather, took a test run at hanging up his coat, and then did it for real.

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock, and there’s no way they use a glaucoma medication to lengthen eyelashes.” He scoffed, buzzed his lips, hung up his own jacket. The one with the patch on the right shoulder. Sherlock’s favorite. He wondered how often the butt of a rifle had been pressed to that leather. Probably less often than John had planned.

Sherlock frowned.

“Ridiculous.” John sauntered to the kitchen to open and close cabinets seemingly at random. “Where the fuck are the fucking tea cups?”

“Sink.” Sherlock pointed, leaning up against the archway to the kitchen.

John looked at the dishes for a long time. “Ain’t worth it.” He turned on the taps and stuck his head underneath, slurping up a sip before shutting it off.

“What will you give me if I’m right?” Sherlock stretched against the sturdy wood of the arch, enjoying the feel of the wood grain smoothed over by paint against his back. Sober, he hated the way alcohol got himself out of his head and into his body, but when he was this drunk, it was delightful.

“You’re not right.”

“Then it should be an easy bet.”

John smirked, folding his arms over his chest. “What do I get when I’m right?”

Sherlock returned the smirk, sliding his hand down the center of his chest, relishing the feel of the button bumping up against his palm. “No experiments in the kitchen for a month.”

John scoffed. “You’ll just move them to your room. No thanks.”

“Fine. Nothing in the flat.”

“And nothing stored in the fridge--or freezer!--for later.” John raised one finger and one eyebrow, letting Sherlock know that he would not be denied.

No problem, Sherlock knew he was right. “Fine. And what do I get?”

“If you’re right”--John laughed at the prospect--“I’ll…” He took a moment to ponder, furrowing his brows at the microscope sitting on the table, and then an apparently hilarious idea struck him. “I’ll suck you off.”

“Deal.” Sherlock dug in his inside jacket pocket for his phone for an embarrassing amount of time before he remembered that it was in his coat. “Just a moment.”

He found the phone on the first try, smirking at his own comparative genius despite his chemical diminishment, fired up the internet browser, and typed “Latisse” into the search bar. Chuckling to himself, he pulled up the first result, Wikipedia.

He held the phone out to John. “Ha!”

John squinted at the phone, whispering under his breath until he got to the relevant passage. “In December 2008, the indication to lengthen eyelashes was approved by the U.S. Food and Drug Administration.” He waved it away. “Well. I was in Afghanistan then, wasn’t I?”

Sherlock let his phone clatter to the table. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Still won the bet.”

He slid his suit jacket off his shoulders, draping it over the back of a kitchen chair, and went to work on his belt, eyes boring into John’s.

“What are you doing?” John asked.

“Claiming my prize.” He ripped down his zip.

“What, now?”

Sherlock shrugged, chuckling to himself. “No time like the present.”

John scoffed. “You think I won’t do it.”

Sherlock kicked off his shoes and let his trousers fall to the floor. “Do I?”

John’s gaze fell to Sherlock’s boxer briefs, goods mostly hidden behind the tails of his shirt. Inscrutable. There was something there within John’s eyes, but Sherlock couldn’t parse it. What was it? Disgust? Desire? Determination? Whatever it was, Sherlock’s body seemed to like it, because he felt a low pull in his groin, cock pulsing with a rush of blood. It wasn’t enough to make him erect, but it would have been noticeable to an attentive eye.

John’s eyes were apparently more observant than normal because his breath hitched in time with Sherlock’s pulse. His eyes met Sherlock’s with ferocity. “You think you’re going to call my bluff, do you?” He pointed an accusatory finger. 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Am I?”

“Are you?” John pulled at his bottom lip with his tongue, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Get naked and get in your chair, tosser. I’ll show you a bluff.”

“What if I want to do it in the bedroom?”

“I said I’d suck you off. I didn’t say you get to choose the venue.” John dunked his head under the taps one more time. “Get in the damn chair.”

Sherlock froze, eyelids flashing up and down so fast, he thought for a moment the fluorescent lights in the kitchen were going out.

“What’s the matter?” John smirked. “Too drunk to get it up?”

Sherlock looked down at his groin, trying to calculate how much he drank versus how much it might affect circulation before he realized that was a complete waste of time, the state he was in. So, he met John’s smirk. “Not if you do your job right.”

John snapped his fingers. “Get a move on, then.”

If Sherlock had had any inkling of what was coming, he wouldn’t have been so embarrassed at how quickly he hopped to it, stripping out of his pants and shirt as he scurried to the chair. As it was, he only hoped that John would assume the flushing in his face was due to the alcohol.

Nude, arse sticking uncomfortably to leather, Sherlock watched John kneel between his knees. Oh God. This wasn’t exactly the way he’d imagined it. He’d imagined it sober, in the bedroom, John’s cock sliding into him after, sweet nothings whispered in his ear. But, he’d never imagined that it would become a reality. And the hungry look in John’s eyes was more than he could have ever hoped.

“I bet you think I’ve never done this before,” John murmured, pushing Sherlock’s knees apart. “I bet you’d be shocked at how well I could manipulate your prostate.”

Sherlock’s brain short circuited, swinging wildly between insisting that nothing could shock him and melting down at the possibilities in those statements. He wanted to say something clever or sexy or sarcastic, but instead he squeaked his way down the cushion, John’s words making him ache.

His head dropped against the cushion at the back of the chair. “There’s lubricant in the bedroom.”

John picked up Sherlock’s hips, scooting them forward until they almost hung off the chair. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”

Sherlock found himself whining, face burning at John’s apparent ability to reduce him to a quivering pile of need with just a few words.

John’s tongue dragged up from Sherlock’s perineum, pushing his balls apart on its trek to the base of his cock. “How many times do you think I’ve done this?”

The tip of John’s tongue traced its way up Sherlock’s length, snaking back and forth, and a part of Sherlock wondered whether John was spelling out something even as his body was set aflame.

John’s tongue was on his cock. John’s tongue was expertly manipulating him, turning him incoherent the most efficient way possible, like he had mapped out Sherlock’s body before they had even started.

“More than I previously thought,” Sherlock conceded, though the admission sent a spike of jealousy through his heart. He’d thought John too repressed to ever participate in this activity. Who had unlocked him enough to make him want to do it? Or, the more horrifying thought, what had happened to make him stop?

“Hey,” John said, stroking his palm down Sherlock’s abdomen. “Everything all right?”

Sherlock blinked at him, data slowly filtering through the haze of alcohol, but none of it was what he wanted to know. “How many?”

John flinched. “What?”

“How many?” Sherlock reiterated.

“Oh.” John swallowed, sat back on his heels. “How many times, or how many men?”

“Men.”

“Two.”

“Not including me?”

John cleared his throat. “Including you.”

Sherlock’s eyelids narrowed. One man who made him want to do it. The same man made him want to stop. “I’ll kill him.”

“No!” John burst into laughter. “I should have expected you’d be jealous.”

Sherlock pouted. “I’m not jealous.”

“Right.” The corner of John’s mouth twitched. “Just try to enjoy the benefits, all right?”

Sherlock would have pondered it, eventually coming to the decision (only because his body was currently overruling his head) that enjoying the benefits was by far superior to considering the consequences, but John circumvented that by swallowing Sherlock down.

“John.” Sherlock pressed his head to the cushion, back arching and hips pressing down into the chair in a futile attempt to keep him from thrusting into John’s throat. And ultimately pointless as well because Sherlock could already feel John swallowing around him, the tip of his cock stroking tonsils. How had he learned to do that? Sherlock’s few attempts at performing fellatio had been ruined by an overactive and frustratingly difficult to control gag reflex. How had John learned to overcome it? How long had he been with that man?

“Hey.” John’s fingers splayed over Sherlock’s chest, swirling through the hair between his pecs. “You’re drifting.”

The tension in Sherlock’s body released like a popped balloon, and only then did he realize that he had been holding himself rigid. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I thought we were enjoying the benefits.” John smirked, grazing his thumb over Sherlock’s left nipple, making Sherlock’s body twitch.

“I have to know.”

John responded by flicking his tongue against Sherlock’s perineum.

“Please.”

John took both balls in his mouth, sucked hard, and released with a pop. “Please what?”

Sherlock writhed against the cushion, body pushing itself towards John’s mouth though he knew John would need it to answer his question. “Tell me.”

John chuckled, hand skimming down Sherlock’s torso to frame his cock, angle it down towards John’s mouth. “God, you have a gorgeous cock. It’s darker than I thought.”

_Oh fuck, he’d thought about it._ Sherlock’s heels slammed to the floor on either side of John’s knees. “Damn it, John!”

“What?” John wriggled his tongue up the underside of Sherlock’s cock. “Going too slow for you?”

Despite the resounding, _God damn it, yes!_ reverberating in Sherlock’s brain, he said, “Answer my question.”

His tongue swirled over Sherlock’s slit, no doubt gathering up a bit of precome. No doubt John would be the death of him. “Would you believe it’s a natural talent?”

Sherlock shook his head, though he couldn’t be certain whether it was a reply to John’s question or just an attempt to soothe his strung out body. “No.”

“I like the way you feel back there.” He swooped down, stroked the tip of Sherlock’s cock against his throat and slurped his way back up. “Like a benevolent invader.”

“Fuck.”

John tsked. “Such language, Mr. Holmes.”

He did it again, giving Sherlock a glimpse of all-encompassing ecstasy before pulling back again. And then he paused, breathed hot and heavy against saliva-soaked skin, placed a brief, chaste kiss against Sherlock’s frenulum.

Sherlock let out a frustrated huff. “You… You’re trying to distract me.”

Once more, John took in all of Sherlock, gently rocking his head to stroke Sherlock’s glans with his throat, before pulling back again. “I’m trying to give you the best damn blow job of your life, not talk about an ex.”

That sounded like a fair point to Sherlock, if John would only swallow him again, but instead, he went back to teasing kisses and featherlight licks.

It was damn frustrating. It was torture. It made Sherlock squirm and whimper. It made his cheeks heat in humiliation at his transport’s hedonistic display of vulnerability. Even drunk, even seated in his body more than his brain, he normally had some control of his faculties. He could control his voice and his limbs if not his involuntary, reflexive responses. But here, he found his body rebelling, his voice escaping unbidden, his hands gripping and scrabbling at John’s hair and back without any recollection of having put them there.

In fact, he hadn’t even realized he was doing it until John grabbed his wrists and pushed them back into the cushion. “None of that, now.”

“Why are you doing this?” Sherlock pulled against the restraint of John’s hands, but it didn’t represent a real attempt to get free. And only when John tightened his grip did Sherlock realize that was exactly what he wanted.

John cocked his head in mock confusion. “We had a bet. I lost.”

“You could have been done several minutes ago. Why not just make me come?”

“You want to come?”

Sherlock arched, heels pushing against John’s back. “God, yes.”

“Too bad.” John licked a long stripe up Sherlock’s cock and followed it with his thumb. “You don’t decide when you come. I do.”

Oh God, the possibilities in that statement. John could make him come in the next second or he could keep him on edge until the sun came up. He could do it for hours, maybe even days, and the uncertainty gave Sherlock a thrill that ran from head to toes to fingertips like lightning. John could turn him into a drooling, incoherent mess if he wanted to. It was exciting and humiliating in a way that Sherlock couldn’t quite explain and didn’t want to explore.

Still, he couldn’t help but picture the possibilities, let his mind turn fuzzy as John teased at his cock, slowly turned his body into a bundle of frayed nerve endings. He imagined John bringing him to the edge and then laying soothing hands on his body, guiding him away with praise and tenderness. He imagined John telling him what a good boy he was, how patient, how obedient. He imagined John scolding him, bringing him back from the edge with pinches and slaps.

It surprised him which he found more enticing.

This time, when his hands tangled and fisted in John’s hair, it was purposeful. And he wasn’t looking for John’s mouth on his cock, he was looking for…

John pinned Sherlock’s wrists again, and Sherlock nearly came right then and there. Only a sharp bite of his own teeth to his bottom lip kept him from spilling over the edge.

“If you want this, Sherlock, you’ll let me control the pace.”

Sherlock nodded, tugged against John’s hands until his nails bit into the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock’s wrists.

“Do you want this?”

Sherlock pondered refusing to answer, waiting until John demanded one, but he was too afraid John would leave instead. “Yes. Oh God. Please.”

“Good lad.” John let go of Sherlock’s wrists in favor of sweeping his thumbs up Sherlock’s saliva-slick perineum, dragging the hot flat of his tongue slowly up Sherlock’s cock.

“No,” Sherlock whined.

John pulled back, the loss of heat excruciating. “What?”

“I’m not good,” he blurted. “I’m bad. I’m dirty.”

John shushed him, rubbing a soothing hand over his belly. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting this, Sherlock.” His hand smoothed its way up until he caressed Sherlock’s cheek. “It’s not bad or dirty. It’s human. It’s natural… It’s fine.”

Sherlock pressed himself against John’s hand, blooming like a sun-starved flower under John’s tender reassurances. He felt warm and soft and relaxed, but a tension grew low in his stomach that had nothing to do with arousal, that made him feel a nakedness that had nothing to do with his nudity.

He kissed John’s palm before clasping it back around his wrist. “Call me dirty.”

“My God,” John sighed, running his thumb over Sherlock's pulse point before pulling both hands behind Sherlock's back, gripping them in one iron fist. “Aren't you full of surprises?”

Sherlock wriggled against the confine of John’s hand, felt calloused knuckles scrape against his spine as John’s grip tightened. His other hand went back to the base of his cock, angling it down until it was almost too much, until Sherlock could slide easily into John’s mouth.

“You’re one to talk.”

John pulled off, leaving Sherlock cursing himself for saying anything. “What? Really? You didn't see this coming?”

Sherlock's legs did their best to climb John’s torso. “Don't make fun of me.”

“I’m not. But I thought you wanted that.”

Sherlock groaned. Of all the times for John to be obtuse. “It’s not the same.” The groan grew in pitch and volume, Sherlock's body doing all it could to get John closer. “Please, John. I was so close.”

“Oh.” A smirk of equal parts revelation and smugness spread across John’s face, and his fingers came up to dance over Sherlock’s cock, light enough to tickle had Sherlock been any less on edge. “Does his highness want to come?”

Sherlock nodded, lips and eyelids pressed tight together.

John’s breath ghosted over Sherlock's glans, then a moment later, over Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock could feel the rough fabric of John’s jeans just out of reach of his cock. All he had to do was tip his hips a bit, and…

“Beg me,” John murmured against Sherlock’s mouth.

And it was like a dam opened. Sherlock couldn't be quite sure of the actual words coming out of his mouth. He may have promised John a knighthood for all he knew. But the words didn't matter. What mattered was that Sherlock's cock was enveloped; John’s tongue was frantic, his grip on Sherlock's wrists unforgiving, and his thumb rubbing hard circles against Sherlock's perineum.

To call Sherlock's experience an orgasm wouldn't do it justice. He shattered. It felt as if Baker Street might tumble to the ground from the force of it. He’d never come like that. Not that he’d had much previous success with partners, but even on his own, he'd never had such luck. Of course he’d never experimented with orgasm denial before. He doubted he could be effective on his own.

Sherlock did his best not to crinkle his nose at his own deductive thoughts impeding on the afterglow, looking to John’s face, his spit-slick chin, the trail of semen from the corner of his mouth that he was currently wiping away.

John smiled. “Hey.”

Sherlock returned his own, slower and lazier. “Feel like losing another bet anytime soon?”

They laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta. I hope y'all enjoyed this bit of madness.


End file.
